


Blood Simple

by justmariamay



Category: Supernatural, Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Apocalypse, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Childe/Sire Bond(s), Crossover, Lots of it, Multi, Multiple Endings, Necromancy, Politics, Slow Build, Supernatural Elements, Survival, Undecided Relationship(s), Vampire Clans, Vampire Hunters, horror?, obviously, vampire society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael lives and dies. And then he lives again, but he is not alive.</p><p>Knowledge of Vampire: the Masquerade is not necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Past Imperfect

Looking back Michael keeps asking himself, if things could go differently that night, or if it really was his destiny. He was going to die back then. And well… he did, just not the way anyone would expect. But let’s start a little before that.

Michael’s father Joseph Milton, a catholic priest, died three nights before Good Friday. Not died, he was killed; someone bashed his head against the wall so brutally Michael barely recognized in that mess his dad next morning. Of course, he didn’t let Anna and James see it, which Anna didn’t appreciate. Yes, his brother and sister were adult, but he just couldn’t. Actually Anna found the pictures from the crime scene being a journalist and all, and then she cried for the whole night in her room, as James said.

Weird thing was that his father wanted to be cremated instead of properly buried, but Michael didn’t question it. He even took some ashes from the urn and put it into small leather pouch, which now hanged on his neck along with mother’s silver cross. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to do that. When he was eleven he read a book about Till Eulenspiegel, who did the same thing. But Michael didn’t have any hope to avenge his father in some way. The truth was he wasn’t even angry, he was just sad and exhausted, which was worse. Anna fumed and raged swearing she would find the killer if police wouldn’t. James too was angry in his own quiet way. But Michael… Michael mourned dad, however somewhere deep inside rejoiced he was gone. It was sick.

Soon after the funeral Michael’s life started to become a living hell. Everything gone wrong, all the plans he made were ruined. Their life never was easy, but they had managed. Now, it was a disaster. Somehow he managed to screw up all relationships he had: Jim stopped talking to him after declaring that he wanted to go to some monastery, Anna seemed to hate him, and he and Rachel broke up, because… because he was a mess. Since Rachel has moved out from the tiny apartment they shared he slept for six hours every two days and therefore his brains stopped working properly. He often forgot to do simple things like checking e-mail or charging his cellphone. And yet he started steadily working himself into the ground.

He hated to look in the mirror, because every time he did he saw father looking at him judgingly, he was father’s spitting image, or at least everyone said so. Yes, he had dad’s thick black hair and similar face, but father’s sharp features were softened by mother’s. Still these were dad’s eyes looking at him from the glass surface.

His guitar was gathering dust in the corner, as were books neatly stacked on the floor in another corner. All the pictures with his family, Rachel, classmates and army friends were stuffed in the drawer. He just didn’t need to look at them. Much less he wanted to call any of his friends, because they probably had enough of their own problems. What wasn’t forgotten, but also occupied the drawer was colt Python, six-inch barrel, with all six rounds.

And so it happened that his newly screwed up life needed new screwed up habits. One of them was scampers in the park after midnight. The nights were liberating, air cool and fresh and the solitude was calming instead of frightening. It was a bad idea obviously. But nothing happened to him so far, good or bad. Nothing. In fact he met only few homeless on his way and some man sitting on the bench.

Only on the fifth night Michael notices that it was always the same man on the same bench under the lamp post. He always read a book though the lamplight wasn’t bright enough, sometimes he had a chessboard and he played chess with no one. It was hard to say but the man looked fifty or something. Black suit, always spick and span, gray hair and the constant annoyed expression on his face, as if the world around wasn’t worth his attention – that was what Michael could see while passing by.

The 5th May was Rachel’s birthday. He was going to propose her, but they weren’t together anymore. He doubted she would want to see him, so he left her a voicemail with “Happy birthday, be happy”, she answered “thank U” with SMS. The modest golden ring was left in the drawer with all those pictures.

The 5th May night Michael not knowing what he was doing approached the old man, sat on the bench and moved a black pawn. As soon as the man looked at him Michael felt the power he emanated, sort of like his father used to. But he didn’t tell Michael to go away instead he continued the game, his expression changed from distasteful to curious. In about twenty minutes Michael heard fist words from his opponent “Check”, in five more it was checkmate. The defeat wasn’t humiliating. Michael lost, but lost as gracefully as he was able too. He hadn’t strained his brains this much for some time. The man offered a hand and Michael shook it. The offered hand was cold, very cold, but severe grey eyes became warmer and Michael suddenly felt not as lonely as he felt an hour ago.

After that night Michael always returned to that particular bench after finishing his run and joined the game. He even managed several checks and by a miracle a stalemate. Only 9th May they had their first conversation.

“I thought young men spend their nights in the company of young ladies, not jogging in the park and playing chess with strangers,” said the man dryly.

“Well, my young lady seems to be better off without me,” Michael answered bitterly but honestly.

“What a shame. One day she would have become a grand master’s wife,” that sounded sarcastic but not very offensive. “Well, her loss. But we should stop being strangers then, my name is Zachariah.”

“Like the prophet,” said Michael automatically. Zachariah looked at him strangely. “Sorry… I’m Michael, nice to meet you, sir.”

“Michael… like the angel,” his new friend was unimpressed.

“It’s a common name comparing to yours. But yes, just like the angel. On the wrong side of Heaven.”

“Ooh, are you a poet or something?” Zachariah seemed amused by him.

“Or something,” _or nothing_.

“Interesting. Do you mind sharing the reason, why are you not only awake at this hour, but also run as if all the demons of hell are chasing you?”

“I don’t run that fast,” he hadn’t laughed so genuinely for some time.

“Don’t you?” mused the man. “Is the night more alluring to you than sunlight? Doesn’t the obscurity of it frighten you?”

“Nights are no more dangerous than days, not in this city,” Michael shrugged indifferently.

“You are not entirely wrong, but Chicago nights hide so much more than petty crimes and serial killers, Michael. They hide the whole another world.”

“Are you a poet or something?” replied Michael with Zachariah’s earlier ‘joke’. Seemed appropriate.

“I am many things,” said Zachariah and after a moment of silence he added, “One of my sons was a poet. Not very good one though.”

‘ _Was_?’ was Michael’ silent question.

“I’ll tell some of my story another night,” promised Zachariah, “and I expect to hear yours.”

From what Michael had seen Zachariah was one of those guys you either hate, either are drawn to. He was very charismatic and intelligent and sometimes rude and insensitive; he regarded the whole world with contempt. But when he spoke about his children, there were fondness and regret. He had a daughter Naomi and three sons: Ion, Esper and Inias. It seemed they all died in the incidents, which involved some religious fanatics. It would be much later, when Michael really learned what that was about.

Speaking of fanatics and lunatics, more and more often he met ‘prophets’ at the subway entrances. Every single one was preaching about Armageddon “The end is nigh! Repent!” and so on and so on. The one on the Conservatory station unnerved Michael the most. That bum always looked Michael straight in the eye, while screaming that demons are hunting his (Michael’s) soul. Michael tried really hard not to let this get to him. After all it wasn’t big surprise that the world was going straight to hell. But hey, at least he made himself a new friend.

Yeah, shortly, Michael started to consider one bitter old megalomaniac old man his friend. Well, he had good influence on Michael too, always challenging his mental endowments. He became a little more sociable with his colleagues in workshop and returned to music and books (and yeah, his half-ass poetry). Zachariah could easily make Michael to spill all the thought he preferred to keep to himself. He was persuasive, very persuasive. Michael actually wondered if it was some kind of jedai trick. Sometimes it seemed like Zachariah was examining him, though he never asked the details of his personal life, which Michael appreciated.

 But Michael’ hopes that his life started to improve were for naught.

May 27th was the last day of his life and its events are hard to recall due to the following night. First he punched his boss hard, when a little argument grew heated and the smug moron said something offending about his parents and his faith. It didn’t make Michael feel better, quite the opposite, he just humiliated himself even more. Second, his afghan syndrome made itself felt, when he saw puddle of what he afterwards supposed had been tomato juice or something on the otherwise clean pavement. But it was nothing serious, just a bad memory. And finally, he had to tell no to Anna when she called him over to ‘talk’, but he agreed to come. It was a mistake.

Somewhat civil conversation turned into argument, when Michael supported Jim’s decision to go to monastery. Not that he really understood it, but he took his side nonetheless.

“James is 21, just like you, Ann! Can’t he make his own decision?”

Anna was furious.

“Exactly! He’s only 21! You think dad would have approved?”

“I was 17 when I enlisted and dad approved,” pointed out Michael.

“He didn’t just approve, he insisted! He just wanted to take you off his hands!”

“Anna!” James yelled horrified.

She didn’t mean it. She couldn’t have. But Michael couldn’t tell for sure. So he tried to return to the topic.

“It is not about me. Anyway, why are so opposed to it?” he said as calmly as was possible.

“Because!” How could anyone reason with her?

“I understand you are worried, but it’s a catholic monastery, not some sect for God’s sake! Nobody will brainwash him or something. And he will be always able to leave, if he wants. Right, James?”

“Yes, that’s right,” confirmed his brother.

His sister seemed to finally give up.

“Well fine, Jimmy. But you will regret it.”

Michael didn’t know why he was here. His word never had any weight in this house. He hadn’t been living here since he was 17. Now he was almost 23 and already had ruined his life. Oh, dad would be so proud. Thinking like this he hadn’t noticed James was asking him something.

“Sorry, I kinda…”

“It’s ok,” smiled Jim, “I was asking, have you decided about the university?”

“I’m studying for the exams. Though recently I have been thinking about going to police academy, or maybe even returning to military service.”

“Hmm…” hummed Anna and Michael had a feeling she’s going to say something hurtful again and that feeling didn’t deceive him. “I wonder why… does it have to do anything with your constant need for violence?”

Michael froze.

“And what do you mean by that, Anna?” he said coldly, while his blood was boiling.

“Anna…” started Jim in hushed tone, but she didn’t listen.

“Oh, you know what I mean. Always wanted to ask, if you’ve ever killed kids back there in Afghanistan,” all this venom didn’t suit her at all.

But yes, he did. He killed two kids with AK-47. One was about 12, another - about 15. But why stop here?

“I killed women too, before you ask. What else do you want to hear, dear sister? Maybe how I tortured people? Or how people tortured me? Maybe you wanna know how I was picking up my sergeant’s guts? Or should I tell you how Talibs killed the children they held hostage? By all means, Anna, ask whatever the fuck you want.”

Anna didn’t look so sure of herself anymore and then she whispered:

“Get out, Michael.”

Well, he didn’t need to be told twice. He picked up his leather jacket and walked out the door.

Outside Jim caught up with him, “Michael!”

“What is it, Jim?”

And his brother looked at him with those big blue eyes of his, obviously worried and even scared.

“I’m sorry, Jim. I know I shouldn’t have said that. I know that Anna is on edge because of what happened to dad and all, I didn’t mean to snap like that,” he really was sorry.

“Michael… I…”

“James, don’t. It’s okay.” Thank God he hadn’t mentioned the loaded gun in his drawer.

“Promise?” and damn he sounded just like twelve years ago.

“Scouts honor,” he gave his usual reply and patted James’ arm, “Bye, little brother.”

“Take care, Michael.”

Michael winked and smiled at parting.

Way home wasn’t anything special at all. Just the usual crowded bus and he wasn’t gripping the handrail so tight his fingers were crunching.

In the dark narrow space of his apartment, he felt suffocated. The light bulb burnt out, and he didn’t feel like changing it. So he lied down on the ancient sofa bed and stared at the white ceiling and cracks in the plaster. He was calming down and didn’t have to take any meds which was a relief, he really hated that stuff. The twilight was painting peculiar shadows on the wall, Michael couldn’t decide if it looked like a palm tree or a big hairy spider. He didn’t mind spiders. He smiled remembering how every time Rachel shrieked at the sight of these harmless creatures he would just take and carry them outside. And sometimes he would show especially interesting specimen to the girl next door Joanna, daughter of his landlady, Ellen, who also owned a bar on the ground floor.

He started to doze off, when his cellphone rang. At first he wanted to ignore it, all the more so, the number was unknown, and he did, but when it rang again he answered the call.

“Hello?”

“You’re Mike, right?” a male voice, not familiar.

“Yes, and you are..?”

“Call me Dr. Bad-Ass,” he sounded almost bored.

“I’m not really in the mood for prank calls.” Not in the mood for any calls.

“I’m afraid there is nothing funny here, buddy. You should get out. There is a yellow cab waiting for you across the street, driver is wearing sunglasses.”

_Sunglasses during the night?_

“What the…”

“Listen, Michelangelo, you’ll thank me later. If you survive, that is. Take a knife or something, just in case,” the guy on the phone whoever he was sounded urgent now. Michael didn’t doubt too long.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he decided to play along.

“Cool, good boy,” and Dr. Bad-Ass hang up.

Michael quickly took his colt and put it into the inner pocket of his jacket. After locking the door he ran down the stairs he saw Ellen’s bar was opened, but the street was almost empty. There really was classic yellow taxi across the street, and when Michael cautiously approached the car, the driver simply said “Hop in,” and Michael did just that.

After 10 minutes or so Michael couldn’t stand the creepy silence of the black haired driver, who somehow calmly drove in his sunglasses.

“What is this all about?”

“I believe you shall find out soon enough,” his voice was smooth and deep, betraying no emotion behind it.

“Where are we going?” asked Michael again when they turned on the West Lake Street, but his mysterious companion didn’t acknowledge him.

“You are not going to talk to me, are you?”

“I’m just a driver.”

Damn. Michael nervously clutched the pouch on his neck, but truth to be told, the weight of the gun inside his jacket was much more soothing.

By the midnight he was brought to the River North. The driver dropped him near some dark alley and soon was gone. Looking around Michael didn’t see anyone at first, but soon he noticed a movement in the shadow and then nothing. Absentmindedly he closed his fingers around the grip of the gun. And then for about ten seconds he just stood, his body refused to move, and those seconds were enough for him to find himself surrounded by two men and a woman. Michael was roughly pushed into the alley. He didn’t panic just yet.

“Hello there. Might I ask where your sire is?” the middle-aged woman in the grey dress asked with a slight accent.

“My what? Sorry ma’am, I don’t understand,” he backed up slightly. Woman looked at him appraisingly.

But then he felt a man’s freezing cold hand around his neck. His nails were very sharp and… did he smell him? Something about this guy was obviously animalistic.

“It is alive,” growled the thug and woman eyes lit up with amusement.

“Oh, you poor little thing,” she purred in mocking sympathy as her partners in crime laughed loudly.

No, Michael was not going to have any of it. They weren’t armed, he on the other hand was. He managed to break away from that small circle and ran to the other side of the alley, unlocking the safety lock on his colt. He turned around and pulled the trigger without thinking.  His aim was as good as ever: he felt strong recoil, the loud sound broke the night silence and the bullet sank right into the head of the first assailant. Then Michael watched wide eyed as the pale flesh turned into the black cinder before it hit the ground and the black bones too moldered within a second, not even piece of clothing was left. What was going on? He wasn’t dreaming, he was sure of it. Or was he? His right hand started to shake from the supernatural fear and he couldn’t concentrate his mind, but he still kept the other two at gunpoint. Thankfully alley was narrow, that only one could approach at one time.

“Whatever you are, better leave me alone,” warned Michael, surprised how strongly his voice came out.

The woman started to walk towards him and looking totally smug.

“Back off,” he repeated. Why the hell the gunshot hadn’t drawn any attention yet?

“Now, now, let’s not do this. Be a dear and put down your gun,” she cooed.

“Why would I do that?” However it took all his willpower not to obey.

“I said. Put. Your. Gun. Down,” she punctuated every word this time with steel in her voice.

The tremor in his hand became unbearable and taking aim in the darkness wasn’t easy. His body was going to comply with the given order, but _he_ wasn’t going to. He desperately fired before dropping the gun and the shot hit the presumptuous bitch under the collarbone. She didn’t look hurt though, she looked outraged. And then she smiled widely, and there was something not right about this smile. He knew what it was when this fragile woman pushed him up the dirty wall with unnatural force. He hit his head hard but he noticed a pair of needle sharp white fangs. He didn’t have time to make anything from it, as the second man hissed:

“Drain it!”

“Don’t scream too loud, handsome,” she whispered in a tone that might had been seductive in another situation and sank her teeth into Michael’s neck.

The searing pain cut through his brain, he had never been in such agony. He attempted to push the monster away, but all efforts were in vain. He was scared to death, and this kind of fear was ad nauseam familiar to him. He wasn’t a strong soldier anymore, he was a kid, helpless and frightened and crying. He was going to die this time.

But he didn’t. Not yet. Through his pain glazed eyes he saw the thug tearing the woman from him (and oh, the separation hurt as much as the bite); he had grown his claws and ripped her throat. Sliding down the wall Michael tried to clamp the wound on his neck and felt hot blood coming out with every beat of his heart in tiny pulsating fountains. He knew what it meant. He didn’t see what happened to the beast-man, but he knew he was dead too, because there appeared another pile of ashes. Then he blacked out.

He woke up too soon. But he wasn’t in some dark alley anymore. He was in a room and he was not alone.

“Michael?” it was Zachariah beside him.

Michael reached to his wound and found none.

“You… you did something, didn’t you?” he asked weakly.

“It doesn’t matter what I did, the most important is what I’m going to do.”

“And what is it?” Michael suddenly felt cold inside, but it wasn’t the freezing dread he had felt back in that alley. Subconsciously he foresaw the lot, that awaited him. Death.

Zachariah looked at him mindfully and it seemed like he was contemplating where to start. Only now Michael noticed how close to each other they were sitting.

“We don’t have much time. You should know, Michael, I’ve chosen you. You among many others. You appeared before me when I’ve almost lost all hope, made me believe in miracles again. And now I’m going to take your life and leave you with a cursed legacy, all alone. I’ve always been irresponsible sire. You will probably hate me, if you survive this night. And you will be right to do so,” he made a pause and Michael didn’t dare to ask what he meant.

“I’m not giving you a choice, Michael, I am not that benevolent. I am playing the gambit.”

Then he sighed through the clenched teeth, letting Michael see the fangs. He didn’t think about vampires or some supernatural stuff. He thought about pain he wasn’t ready to experience again. He closed his eyes shut trying to regain control over his senses.

“Look at me, childe,” Zachariah took his chin to make Michael face him, “I won’t hurt you.”

And Michael believed him. He couldn’t even think straight. If he could, he would have run for dear life. But perhaps life wasn’t so dear to him anymore.

Zachariah didn’t hurt him, as he promised. Michael didn’t even feel the bite, it was more like… a kiss maybe? It surely felt intimate, more intimate than it ever was with Rachel. He felt he was loved like never before. And pleasure he received was delicate and exquisite, almost unbearable. He was choking, he couldn’t breathe. But he didn't care at that point. Nothing in the world mattered at that particular moment. His heart was beating faster and faster pumping the remains of his blood in effort to conduct the oxygen through his system to no avail. Michael was gone long before his heart finally stopped beating.


	2. Stepping on the Chessboard

Michael remembers the exact moment when he awoke, but he wasn't torn from death's cold gentle arms, not really. That moment was absolutely beautiful and terrifying to no end. His body was changing into something stronger, tougher - perfect.  It was like all that was unnecessary was gone, every imperfection evened out. Unfortunately a fleeting sensation of ecstasy was soon replaced by raw hunger. Michael's throat was dry and burning. Something alien inside him stirred awake. Something that was so much bigger than him it was a mystery how easily it fitted in. And this... this thing was craving to be sated. Wait... what had happened?

He opened his eyes. Suddenly he became very aware of the surroundings. He could smell the rain through the curtained window, could hear someone snoring on the floor above. He could see in the dark. He wasn't home, the mattress was softer, the ceiling didn't have cracks... He straightened up and unconsciously put hand on his neck. It was just as cold as his hand and at first he didn't register that he couldn't feel his own pulse. And then he remembered: a strange phone call, a long drive on a taxi with short-spoken creepy driver and everything that happened in that alley. It was less then hour ago... no. No. It was hard to think. Was that just a nightmare? Michael didn't realize he had said that aloud... wheezed out rather.

"I'm afraid your nightmare has just begun, childe," Zachariah was standing in the doorway. His presence put Michael at ease.

Michael forced the words out of his disgustingly dry mouth.

"It really happened..."

"Indeed. But do you understand  _what_  happened?" 

Did he? He had some idea. He ran the tip of his tongue along his teeth just to make sure. It was crazy. He covered his face with his palms.

"Yes. Now I am..."  _Say it,_  his subconscious told him, but he couldn’t, "am I?" he finished lamely. 

"Look at me," Zachariah said softly but sternly, Michael couldn't find will to disobey. Suddenly he feared to see disappointment on Zachariah's face, he got enough of it from dad.  _Oh, dad..._

But there was no such thing. Zachariah watched him with a same expression he'd been watching him since their first meeting: attention, curiosity, amusement, only there was something akin to hope in the gray eyes.

"You should see yourself, Michael. You are beautiful," Michael was surprised to hear no sarcasm from the man.

Zacharia switched on the light and Michael's sight adjusted to sudden brightness almost instantly. The bedroom he was in was nice, moderate and tasteful. Really it was his hands that bothered him the most at the moment: the skin acquired unnatural pallor, but the lines of veins barely showed through it, the calluses on his palms he'd had since he was teenager were barely noticeable. He turned his hands tentatively as if to be sure they really belonged to him.

There was a mirrored wardrobe right to the door and Michael didn't want to look, but Zachariah tilted his head to the mirror in silent 'go ahead'. As he stood up he wobbled and barely stayed on his feet, he felt weakness and dizziness and the hunger became almost painful. But he managed to contain it. 

The silver surface didn't reflect the usual image. Whitened face without the black bags under too bright green eyes, which made stark contrast with his pitch black hair. But it was his face, a little different but  _his_ , not the ghost of his father. His t-shirt was stained with blood and there really was no trace of the wound on his neck. And yes, he was  _beautiful_. 

"See?"

"I... I thought it was said that vampires," he finally said this word, "don't have a reflection," the best thing he could think of at the moment. Zachariah snickered.

"As far as I know only one bloodline inherits this particular trait," and before Michael could ask the elder continued, "You should change, we shall go soon," and left the room.

Michael supposed it was ok and opened the wardrobe. Whoever this room belonged to he was smaller than Michael, but found a simple black t-shirt that seemed to fit. He took of his dirty one and the pouch with dust knocked his white chest. He got a strange idea that it was the only semblance to a heartbeat he could get. All the scars were gone and it felt wrong, as if he wasn't himself anymore. Perhaps it was true. He screw his eyes shut trying to stifle the hunger again.

He picked up his jacket from the floor, surprised to find his colt in its pocket and not really surprised his cell was gone. 

In the other room Zachariah was talking on the phone.

"I know. Prince wants a public execution, doesn't he? I am in Inias' haven, I'll be there before you. No one can mind their own damn business, huh? Yes, Richard, he is. Indeed... Fine, just tell him to keep his hound on the leash, unless he wants to look for a new one. Yes, good evening," Zachariah seemed exasperated. 

Michael had so many questions and didn't know where to start. His mind wasn't blowing only because he felt like crap. The clock on the wall showed 00:39.

"So... what now?" he asked quietly.

"Now I have to make a move."

 _'A gambit...'_  remembered Michael.

"Let's go, I'll explain your current condition. Keep your gun handy."

Michael nodded and followed Zachariah out. Zachariah locked the door and handed Michael the keys. Then they proceeded to the elevator. Thankfully Zachariah started talking.

"I need to fill you in, Michael. First, you are dead now, at least clinically, your past life is over, no more friends or family, try to forget about them, will be easier and safer that way. You can't let kine know about kindred. That's the first and one of the most important rules - the Masquerade."

"Kine and kindred?"

"That's our words for human and vampires. Second, now that you are a monster," one of the reasons Michael had liked Zachariah in the first place was that he always called thing by their names, "you'll have to fight for your humanity. I am very old, childe, but I remember how how I felt, when I was embraced, I am well aware how you feel now. You want to keep the Beast caged - you feed regularly and don't kill innocent. I'm sure you understand what I mean by innocent."

Michael nodded.

"And the Beast... is it metaphor?"

"Yes and no. Not quite. It is right here," Zachariah put his hand right above Michael's solar plexus, "I'm sure you've been feeling it, something trying to take control from you. Once it does, you'll be just an animal, wild, scared and bloodthirsty. I frenzied about dozen times throughout my entire unlife. It's disgraceful and very dangerous." 

The elevator stopped. They went outside into the night and under a light rain. Once again Michael marveled at the intensity of his senses. His nerves were catching every raindrop, every sound, every smell. 

"This is a cruel existence, it has its advantages, but this is a curse. Eternal life is not a bad deal, but you always can be destroyed, well you saw how it happens. Our blood can heal the heaviest wounds, sunlight and fire is worst that can happen. So, don't be recless, if you want to survive of course."

"You've said I might not survive this night."

"It is a possibility. I certainly won't."

"You are calm though."

"Dead calm. But so are you."

"It's just my brains haven't grasp what happened in its full measure."

"It will take some time. Tomorrow night you will wake up to have an existential crisis," promised Zachariah.

"Great. Another one," then he asked, "How old are you?"

"Old. I saw your Christ nailed to the cross," it sounded like a joke, but Michael had feeling it wasn't. Wow.

"Why me?" 

"You seemed like the best candidate to serve my purpose," he was just a pawn in some game, Michael understood that much. Strange that he didn’t mind to be used at all.

When they turned to rather narrow street Zachariah suddenly came to a halt. 

"Wish we had more time. Whatever happens now, don't interfere and don't be afraid. Follow your instincts but don't let them control you. Don't blindly trust anybody, because there is dagger in every sleeve and fangs behind every smile. I'm afraid I can't teach you anything else. This is goodbye, Michael. May the sunlight never touch your face, childe."

Then something pierced Michael's chest and everything turned black.

* * *

 

 He awoke the third time that night this time kneeling on the marble floor. His head was buzzing. It was like insipid version of 'Inception', dream within a dream within a dream... Someone stood beside him holding his head in a place, in another hand he had a wooden stake. And Michael had a hole in his chest. It didn't hurt, he felt nothing. Someone was making a big speech, but he grasped only a quarter of it.

"...gone too far! You were one of founders of the Camarilla. No, of all civilized vampire society. And now, in times like this, you are breaking law after law. You’ve become reckless. The embrace of this childe, which I didn't permit, is the final straw. Please, tell me if there any reason I should spare your life," the voice was male, with British accent. From the corner of his eye Michael saw Zachariah grinning baring his teeth.

"Oh, there is no such thing, my prince. I certainly have done everything to deserve death sentence," well, his sire was without doubt enjoying himself. He felt the hand that was holding him slipped from his hair and he was allowed to turn his head. The ‘prince’ looked like a middle-aged man, black hair, black suit. While not looking very impressive, in some surreal way Michael felt allure and charisma all around him.

"Very well," said prince, "Any last words, oh sapient one?"

"Let me think... I think you are going to like this one," Zachariah sounded mocking and then he spoke very seriously and menacingly _"Awake, O sword, against my shepherd, and against the man that is my fellow, saith the Lord of hosts: smite the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered: and I will turn mine hand upon the little ones. And it shall come to pass; in all the land, saith the Lord, two parts therein shall be cut off and die; but the third shall be left therein,"_ it sounded familiar; it wasn't the Revelation, though it had some apocalyptic sounding to it.

"Well, that was enlightening, and dramatic," said the prince. "Dean, please," he addressed a young blond man behind him. 

In trance Michael watched this 'Dean' seeth a katana like sword and sever Zachariah's head with one precise strike. His sire's body turned into pile of ash. Tearing his eyes away Michael looked around the auditorium. There were about two dozens of people... kindred. Some looked indifferent, some outright bored, nobody showed any interest, like this kind of gatherings were the most mundane activity. It was hard to concentrate and tell more. He felt sharpness against his neck. He looked up and met executioner's eyes, green like his own. The guy looked smug like cat that ate a canary. 

"Thus, the title of Ventrue primogen is passed to mister Roman, I suppose? Obviously. Now, let's deal with this... this childe before we discuss more important matters. There is a risk that..."

Michael didn't listen anymore. He knew where this was going. He wished it was over already. Only once in his life death had been something scary for him and back then he was eleven. He felt a corner of his mouth twitch. At this point all this charade was getting pretty funny. His soon-to-be killer seemed to notice the change in his soon-to-be victim: from helpless confusion to calm confidence. They were staring in each other's eyes and suddenly Dean, the guy who held a sword too close for comfort, wasn't that important at all. The sense of superiority wasn't familiar to Michael, but damn it felt good. Even the murderous hunger was forgotten. The blade wavered and scratched at his skin. The executioner was unnerved. By him. If he killed Michael he'd prove he was afraid of him. The thought was strangely satisfying. Ignoring the instinct of self-preservation he pressed his flesh further to the sharp metal, never drawing his eyes from the man above, challenging him, daring to give in. Michael had little doubt that if he was to say out loud the command to get it over with, Dean would do it. It was strange hypnotic game where Michael was prey and predator at the same time. But the spell was broken when a deep calm voice rose above the murmuring mass of sound.

"If every childe was punished for the sins of their sires, half of present wouldn’t be here, Crowley, including you, me and your sheriff."

Dean had lowered his sword and pointedly stopped looking Michael in the eyes. Michael in turn didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved. In the meantime the speaker continued.

"We  _are_  on the brink of war. Zachariah was mistaken in his methods, but he was right about it. Wasting the potent blood in times like this is most likely unwise," Michael's 'advocate' was a tall black man who was casually leaning on the wall left to Michael. His arms crossed, his face completely emotionless, just like his words. Michael also noticed others eyeing this man cautiously. When he accidentally caught his gaze he felt even more uneasy than with the sword against his throat. There were shivers down his spine. Probably this guy had this effect on many people. He was... unnerving.

Michael heard the Prince mutter something under his breath before another voice loudly announced:

"Hate to admit, but Raph has a point. Grandpa Zach screwed up the big time, but I have hard time blaming him, all things considered. He was a complete dick, but his kids were always poster childer of your precious Camarilla," spoke a blond sitting frivolously on his chair, his feet put on the back of the front sit "Common, Crowley, if you don't want the fledgling, I wouldn't mind to take him under my wing," then he stuck out his tongue and made inappropriate gesture in Michael's direction. Luckily Michael was too exhausted and just ignored it. The murmurs filled the room again.

"Anyone else who wants to speak out?" prince sounded annoyed.

"I am inclined to agree with mister Edlund as well," said a man near a young Asian lady, who was busy scribing something on her pad. Both had all business look about them.

"I see no harm in letting this childe live," a nice looking young man voiced his opinion from the third raw. 

"So be it. Let's hope it won't backfire," concluded Crowley.

Within a second Dean pulled Michael back on his feet. His head was spinning. Dean gave some sign to the guy, who'd been holding him down and he led Michael out of the room. Michael could swear he heard child's laughter from behind.

* * *

 

The corridor was dark and empty. Looked like it was some municipal building, maybe library or even a school. 

The hold on his arm loosened and he was turned around to see his overlooker. It was a bearded man looking middle or late thirties, somewhat old-fashioned, impressively built. 

"You alright, brother?"

"I... " what could he say? 'The life I knew is over, my sire is a pile of dust, I've almost died twice this night (before and after I actually died ) and I think I'm having the worst hangover ever. I've really never had one, but I guess that's how it feels. My throat is drier than Sahara. And I kinda want either run away either kill someone. All things considered, I suppose I'm fine'? 

Man let out deep chuckle, as if he knew exactly what had passed through Michael's head. 

"Sorry about your sire, really. Can't even imagine what it feels like." Michael swayed dangerously on his feet as if he was a cripple who suddenly realized his limbs were amputated but Benny didn't let him fall. "Man, you're all wobbly. Have you had a drink yet?"

"A drink?.." Ah,  _that_  dink.

"Oh, that's not good. I hope you won't frenzy on me. You know what... ah, sorry, where are my manners? The name's Benny," he hold out his right hand, Michael shook it as firmly as he could at the moment. 

"Michael."

"Nice to meet ya. Right, let's get out. They will be there for half an hour in the least."

The corridor seemed endless and... maybe it was just paranoia, but Michael thought he saw or rather felt something lurking in the shadows. He was glad when they finally went through the emergency exit. It wasn’t raining.

“What do I do with you, kiddo?” Benny gave him an assessing look. “You’re blueblood, aint ya, princess?” the vampire shook his head sympathetically, “Not gonna be easy for ya.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that those,” Benny pointed to the dumpster where rats swarmed about and then wrinkled his nose, “and that bum down the street are bound from your diet, princess.”

By the light of nature, so to speak, Michael just knew it was true, but couldn’t understand yet.

“Why? Blood is blood, isn’t it?”

“It’s about the quality, not the quantity. And as far as I know your clan can’t stomach rats and lowlife. Usually kindred doesn’t get to choose when it’s all there is, but you’ll just vomit dirty blood out. It’s a weakness, but it makes you who you are, princess,” Benny smiled and clapped his shoulder.

“Don’t call me that… wait, clan? What the…” Michael got lost in the thousands of questions he wanted to ask while he had to suppress something that tried to tear him apart from the inside.

“Look, Michael, you’ll learn all this stuff from more knowledgeable kindred than I. For now we have a more urgent matter.”

“Why?” Michael wondered all of sudden, “Why are you helping me, Benny? I’m nothing to you, no one.”

“Tell me, princess, if you see a newborn baby thrown out on the streets, will you just ignore it?” vampire asked him only half-jokingly.

“No, but…”

“You are that baby, kid. You’ve been almost condemned along with you sire, who didn’t have chance to teach you how to walk, how to feed, how to breath. So forgive me if I feel sorry for you. I don’t exclude the possibility that Crowley’s hoped you would frenzy and I would have to kill you. Would it not be for the mage, you’d be dead. My pity is probably the last thing you want or need, but I want to help. You can trust me,” those icy blue eyes were sincere and Michael wanted to trust. But this man was holding him down when he was judged for nothing and Zachariah turned into dust on the marble floor.

“He told me not to trust anybody…” he whispered.

“Your sire? He was right, he was a wise kindred. It’s a kind of life where everyone either wants something from you either wants you dead. I don’t know what happens after, but here and now you can trust me.”

“Okay,” quietly agreed Michael, “Thank you.”

“Common, kiddo,” Benny smiled sadly and guided him to the lighted street. The building they were in really was a library, though Michael wasn’t in condition to pay attention where in the city they were.

Benny scanned the street looking for something. Suddenly his expression changed into angry scary mask. Michael looked in that direction and the sight didn’t make him happy too. Two men were pulling reluctant woman after them at a distance of a hundred meters down the street. 

“Up for a challenge, blueblood?” asked Benny.

Michael nodded and before he started walking Benny put a hunting knife into his hand saying “Don’t kill them unless they deserve it.”

“I won’t need it,” he replied and returned the weapon. He was good at hand-to-hand fighting, but he also felt another sort of confidence.

Michael crossed the street diagonally to meet that lovely company. He found them right behind the corner of a school building. It happened to be very young people, all three no more than 18. The girl looked miserable: she was wearing too thin dress for a cool night, her bright pink lipstick was smeared around he little mouth and her tights were torn.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

Michael was unimpressed. Kids were not intimidating in the least. Even in his weakened conflicted condition he felt no fear before them. But he had to fight the urge to beat them bloody. He spat on the ground in disdain before he spoke shortly:

“Leave,” Michael mimicked the flat tone in which Zachariah was giving short commands, his fingers doing some motions on their own. He realized he was straining his already drained system, but didn’t stop.

“Yeah, we have a party going on anyway,” and the two left just like that. The Jedi trick was really working.

“Are you alright, miss?” he asked the brunette girl.

“Wow,” was all the girl said looking at him in awe. Michael noticed her pupils were blown wide. She was high. Then she giggled and with childish curiosity asked: “Are you an angel?”

Yep, high as a kite. And she was shuddering from the cold. Michael without a second thought took off his jacket and put it around her fragile shoulders.

“I can see your ha-lo,” she sang, wrapping herself up in black leather. Well, she could have seen something worse. Like fairies and unicorns. He could hear her pulse, the warmth… he looked at her neck and it all came naturally to him. He pushed his hand in her hair, leaned down and his fangs met no resistance as they sank into warm pulsating flesh, the girl was pliant and showed no sign of discomfort. The taste was intoxicating, sweet hot blood was filling his cold numb dead body with its life, soothing the restless Beast inside. The pleasure was addictive, comparable only to one he felt when his sire was draining him. He made himself stop not wishing to hurt the girl. He wasn’t sated, but he felt great. Even better than that. He was in control, the exhaustion left, his skin tingled pleasantly.

The girl’s eyes were closed, she seemed to be in blissful trance. As much as Michael hated to bring her out of it, leaving her here like this was out of question.

“Hey, you ok?”

“I’m in Heaven,” yeah, figures.

“Do you have a phone?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Call your friends or family, you need help,” Michael advised.

She quickly picked up her purse from the ground.

“Next time, be careful,” and Michael hurried back when she started dialing someone.

Benny waited him around the corner.

“Nicely done, princess,” he praised.

“Just followed my instincts,” explained Michael not hoping to get rid of his new nickname.

 “Don’t want your jacket back?”

“She needs it more than I do. I don’t feel cold anymore,” there was nothing important in the pockets too, his gun was probably taken. Only he had nothing to cover the tear on the t-shirt right where his heart was. Tugging at the tear he noticed Benny watching him with interest.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” though his amused smile told otherwise, “That’s from the wooden stake,” he pointed at the tear, “Don’t remember?” Michael shook his head. “Yeah, those things don’t kill us, only paralyze. Cross… well, I see you’re wearing one and it didn’t burn you. Garlic and holy water – pffft!” Well, that was eloquent enough.

Michael stopped Benny at the backdoor of the library.

“One more question, Benny. That girl… she didn’t even noticed I sucked her blood. And when Zachariah was turning me… well…” he tried to formulate the question.

“Felt good, didn’t it? Makes sense to me, we don’t need to kill our victims,” it did make sense, but…

“It’s just… earlier this night, when that… that woman, a vampire bit me, it hurt like hell, the wound she left was vital… and…”

“Wait, what woman? What happened?”

Benny looked concerned, when he heard the full story of his encounter in the dark alley.

“I have an idea who that woman was, but if she was with the Sabbat bastards… look, we’ll talk about it later. Better keep it to yourself for now, Mike,” he whispered as if worried someone would hear.

* * *

 

They returned to the library and acted like strangers again. Michael sat on the chair, Benny stood at the wall in front of him, watching him like a hawk. Michael closed his eyes and tried _not_ to think at all for a short time. It was all too much for a one night.

He snapped to reality to find himself with lapful of ten years old girl in a white dress and pink blouse, who was pinching his cheeks. Considering where he was, this girl could be twice older than him. They stared at each other for a long few seconds.

“You are pretty,” she finally stated.

“You too,” he returned the compliment honestly. He saw Benny looking at him sympathetically. He probably was in trouble. Girl smiled like sunshine, showing her little fangs.

“I’m Lilith. What’s your name?” But Michael didn’t have time to answer because Lilith was lifted from his laps by Dean who then unceremoniously dropped her down. She stuck her tongue at him, called him an asshole and ran down the hall. Cute girl.

“Follow me, fledgling,” Dean commanded.

Dean led him back to that room. Almost everyone was leaving. Michael did his best to ignore the glances they were sending, though he caught a wink from that cocky blond from before.

Prince beckoned them. He was standing by the window and studying something on electronic pad. That something happened to be him.

“Michael Milton… can I call you Mike?”

Michael didn’t answer.

“Rough night, huh, darling? You’ll get used to it,” Crowley assured.

“If you survive, of course,” added on Dean.

“Oh, please, Dean, don’t scare children. Forgive my sheriff. As for your sire… my apologies, but law is the law.”

Michael just nodded.

“You are awfully silent, fledgling. Cowardly lion got your tongue?”

“No, I’m afraid I was exsanguinated,” Michael dared to show his teeth a little.

“No shit!” exclaimed Dean and Crowley just laughed.

“Sense of humor, it’s good. I got tired by all those young emo kindred, who can do nothing but whine. But you should be something else, right? You are working for me now, because sparing your life made me directly responsible for you and your behavior. Let’s see if you know how to behave,” Crowley rose an eyebrow and looked at Michael expectantly.

Michael casted eyes down remembering what Zachariah was telling him.

“Control the Beast and uphold the Masquerade,” he pronounced like a student his lesson. Crowley looked surprised but content.

“I see the Methuselah has taught you something, good. Now please excuse me, I have some matters to settle before this lovely night is over,” he passed between Michael and Dean before turning around and adding “And, girls? No catfights,” and then disappeared in the doorway.

But Dean seemed to miss the last words. He wasted no time, grabbed Michael by the throat and pinned him to the wall next to a window with heavy green drapes. And damn was he strong, how nice that now Michael had to breath only to speak.

“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” he hissed. He obviously was pissed with Michael for some reason. “Next time know your place, kid,” probably he referred to their little ‘clash of wills’ during the court.

“Is there going to be a next time?” asked Michael when Dean let him go.

“Depends on you: you mess up – I come for you, if someone else doesn’t get you first. Wait a second,” he started checking something on his phone. “Ok, seems you’ve got a job, kid,” then he burst out laughing, “Oh, this stuff is gonna kill you!”

‘What a surprise!’ thought Michael. His eyes travelled to what was left from Zachariah in the other end of the room, his hand closed around the pouch and cross (he needed to get rid of this habit). Dean continued:

“You are going to Evanston. Ever been there?”

“Few times, it’s a nice town,” Rachel was from there, she took him to see her family on occasion.

“Yeah, that nice town got worrisome. You’ll need to pay a visit to local baron, she’s a rare bitch. You’ll find the instructions about your mission at your haven and there’ll be someone waiting for you to explain the details. Here the adress,” he gave Michael a scrap of paper, where he wrote ' _550 Sheridan Square, 17_ '.

That was clear enough, but Michael still had questions, like prince of what was Crowley or why his sire was executed, but he chose to ask something more practical:

“May I have my gun back?”

“I thought you’ll never ask,” smirked ‘sheriff’ and pulled Michael’s colt from behind, “Nice stuff, probably the only thing I can respect you for.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a jerk, I get it,” Michael took back the precious gun.

“I’m adorable,” countered Dean and shoved him in the direction of the door, “Go, you’ve got a cab to catch.”

Before he left the room he stopped by Zachariah’s remains, ashes were still warm to the touch and Michael didn’t’ think long before untying the pouch and mingle his sire’s dust with his father’s.  Zachariah was his mentor and in a way a parent too. He noticed Benny through the doorway, who probably saw the whole scene. Michael approached him.

“Where they send ya, princess?” he asked.

“Evanston.”

“Good luck then. I hear nasty things ‘bout that place.”

“Yeah… well, bye, Benny. And… thank you,” Michael meant it, Benny was a nicest person he met that night. They shook hands, Benny entered the room and hailed Dean. Michael proceeded along the dark hall with the dark thoughts in his head.

The same yellow taxi car with the same driver waited for him outside.

“Congratulations, you are still alive, or should I say undead?” joked black-haired man, not sparing him a glance. Or maybe sparing, it was hard to tell because of damn glasses. Once again he said “Hop in,” and once again Michael did just that. It was a very long night.


	3. Road so Far. Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Road so far' will be Dean-centric chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little about few vampire clans:  
> Ventrue, they are considered the noblest (however begrudgingly) of the vampires.  
> Brujah are violent, passionate and quick to anger. Their blood gives in to the Beast quite easy. (suits Dean, I'd say)  
> The Toreador are a clan of vampires known for being some of the most beautiful, sensual, seductive, emotional and glamorous of the Kindred. In a way they are most human than other vampires. So, Crowley is Toreador, 'cause he's a charmer.  
> Tremere are considerably young clan who mastered Thaumaturgy (kind of blood magic), rather small clan, but feared and respected, mostly feared. Raphael makes a good Tremere.

If anyone asks him how he found himself in this mess, he'd say, that it's just his goddamn luck. He was a hunter. He. Was. A. Hunter. And now he is a vampire. He sucks in more ways than one. Dean Winchester started hunting things when he was just a kid. Family business. He loved that job, but things turned out much more complicated. 

He used to hunt ghosts, skinwalkers, puny pagan gods, werewolves and vampires. Supernatural world and creatures of the night were no secret to him. He really considered himself a cool badass hunter. But about five years ago he learned much more about vampires he ever wanted to. The bloodsuckers he used to hunt were mostly thinbloods, the weakest kind, 15th generation vampires, and they thought that's just it. But real deal vampires had infiltrated the human society centuries ago. It’s like a secret civilization. 13 clans, each having their own particular traits and powers. Sects, fighting for the domains. Politics. Intrigues. Religion. Traditions. History. Culture. Magic. War. Real vampire hunters, modern inquisition, compared to them Dad was just an amateur. Dad an amateur, can you believe that? He doesn’t even want to think about real deal werewolves. And so called Asian vampires, who are not vampires at all.

His dad and grandpa Henry had no idea, what they've got themselves into, when they faced Abaddon for the first time. And dad made a mistake when he decided to hunt her down and kill. Abaddon is many things: his grandpa's killer, old and powerful kindred, frenzied Bruja bitch and now she's with the Sabbat. And also, she is Dean’s sire. What a twist of fate. If not for Crowley he’d be either dead, either one of Sabbat’ shock troopers. The first option was more likely though. 

He also could become a caitiff, a clanless sireless vamp, a frenzied monster. Yeah, he is a monster alright, but he doesn’t kill people (unless they really deserve it), he just feeds on them. But caitiffs know nothing about the nature of their existence, but the blood thirst drives them nuts, they lack self-control and couldn’t care less about the Masquerade. Sometimes prince calls the hunt on them and thinbloods when they become a problem.  

He is not the one to study history and all that stuff. But his occupation as sheriff doesn’t require wide knowledge. He serves the Camarilla, the biggest kindred sect in the world. Dean can respect anarchs and their way is tempting, but he found appreciation of law and order when he entered his unlife. Also Camarialla doesn’t admit existence of mythological bullshit like Cain and Antediluvians, which suites Dean just fine, because Abaddon was crazy about it. So yes, he’s glad he is not one of those fanatics Sabbat. Being the sheriff is much better. Sometimes he really can pretend he’s the same hunter he used to be (only with some pretty badass powers), because he kills other vampires. And zombies, he shoots zombies sometimes. Butchering frenzied Sabbat’s bastards is just fun. He even got used to public executions like tonight.

Honestly he expected something else from Zachariah, more fight. Blood hunt was called, but Zachariah just handed himself over. Though despite how badass Dean is, he is aware he had little chance against old Ventrue in a fair fight. Zach would have just dominated him and ask to cut off his own head and he’d have said ‘Sir, yes, sir’. But it is Zachariah’s pile of dust being put into trash can. Tonight’s execution is not something he’s gonna be proud of. No he was only glad to cut off dick’s head off, but for the first time in years he felt like a marionette. No, not Crowley’s, someone else’s. Like Uriel was saying: elders control the blood, they command and you obey.

Old man laughed them all in the face and that new childe of his felt like a spit on a cheek. Damn mage for stepping out for that kid. Not that Dean would enjoy killing him too, but he just smells troubles. Why the last thing that Zachariah did was embracing this guy? The way the Methuselah was acting past few months everyone expected something like a slaughter in Saint John Monastery, the closest big hunter society here. Which would be a disaster for obvious reasons. Or a slaughter of closest Sabat lair. Which would be just delightful.  But alas no one knows where those sons of bitches are hiding.

Dean didn’t like Michael even a bit. Too young, too calm, too fucking Ventrue. Well, he is few years younger than Dean was when Abaddon decided to become his ‘mom’. But for hours old fledgling that kid has quite Presence. And much like Dean did the kid knows how to keep his cool. But something about him just doesn’t fit.

And… hell, kid probably has a family. Dean tries not to think about his, because now they are on the opposite sides of a war his dad committed himself to. And Sam? Damn it. He should be able to let go, some kindred forget their past life rather quickly, but not him. He remembers too damn well. Sometimes he wishes there was a cure from this curse, but such things can’t come true. Only truth is that now every damn vamp is closer kin to him than his father and brother.

“What are you thinking about, Dean?” asks Benny.

“About how much worse this night could get,” he answers grimly.

“Not much, I’m afraid.”

 What a disappointment.

“What do you think about this Mickey kid, Benny?”

“He sure can handle himself. And pretty impressive Presence for newly fledged vamp, and he’s even shown some Dominate skill. He’s reserved, calm. A sad kid, but well, his sire turned into ashes before his eyes and who knows what else. But other than that? I don’t know, Dean… he seems almost too nice to be a Ventrue.” Yeah, those bluebloods are mostly stuck-up bastards who think themselves better than others. Dean really met only one Ventrue he didn’t want to kill instantly. He had only one flaw – he was Zach’s childe. 

“Inias was nice too,” says Dean.

“Yeah, poor fella,” hunters probably didn’t make his final death quick. All the things Dean hears about those guys makes his cold blood chill. Dad was never nice with monsters but he never tortured them. Maybe only because there never was a reason to. Dean fought those hunters only two times (last time doesn’t count as a fight) and barely survived. They were trained killers. Guns, swords, crossbows and worst of all grenades and flamethrowers. Conclusion: don’t screw up the Masquerade and they won’t come for you. And if a kindred violates Masquerade for too long it’s Dean’s job to dispose of unwanted member of the society.

“I’m rather impressed by Michael, I must say,” says Benny after short silence. Are they talking about him again? Though Dean has a feeling the kid’s gonna be the most popular gossip for a next week, because if his sire of course. Thankfully, dead sire.

“I’m impressed by his gun. He has a colt Python remade into actual firearm.” It’s cool and obviously illegal. Probably kid wasn’t exactly an angel in life. Damn, Dean wants this gun.

“You and your obsession with weapons, brother,” chuckles Benny, who knows very little about stuff like that. He finds it rather funny because Brujah like them prefer using bare hands and knifes on occasion. But some habits don’t die, even when you do.

 “So, you’re impressed… Should I be jealous?” Dean asks not meaning anything really. But Benny is the first (and only) friend he made in this new life of his, someone who never lied to him or tried to use him. He’s been told that things like friendship and love don’t mean shit to vampires, because everything is measured with blood here, but he has enough evidence against such statement. Hell, even Crowley was like a lovesick puppy around Naomi before she… yeah. Or maybe it’s just Toreador thing, falling in love with everything and everyone. They do that.

“Nah, he’s not my type. Anyway he’s gonna be dead soon, isn’t he?” There is that too. Crowley’s sent the kid to a very bad place.

“You’ve said he can handle himself,” Dean shrugs not particularly interested in young vamp’s destiny.

“But it’s Evanston, Dean. Eve’s domain. It crawls with caitiff and lately with the Sabbat. How many agents we’ve lost there for the past three weeks?” Benny doesn’t have to ask, Dean knows.

“Five,” Dean would go himself, but Crowley doesn’t let him. Benny would go too but his old man will skin Crowley if something happens to his progeny.

“We’ve just thrown a baby into the lion’s den,” concludes Benny.

“At least he won’t become Lilith’s new boyfriend,” and it’s bad he knows, but they both laugh at that.

“You are horrible, Dean,” says Benny though can’t really stop laughing. Well, final death is better than have Lilith pestering you. Technically she’s century and half old but she looks 10, so it’s fucking creepy. Really, what was Lucifer thinking turning a little girl into bloodsucking monster? Ugh.

But Evanston… Seems like the caitiff and thinbloods are just drawn to her. And Eve, a baron that claimed Evanston as her domain years ago doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t dispose of them, doesn’t chase them away. And worst of all she doesn’t want anything to do with the Camarilla, and yet doesn’t openly antagonize them. Crowley is at loss, so for now he tries to get her negotiate. But seems like all five agents they’ve sent there met their final death before reaching the bitch queen. And it’s obvious that Crowley wants Zach’s last childe out of picture, because who wants a sireless Ventrue childe with bad blood? Nobody is that stupid.

All in all Dean was surprised that Tremere regent has spoken out at all. He was right, Dean is not sure about Crowley and the mage himself, but Dean could easily be executed if everyone adhered to the law. But Tremere usually don’t concern themselves with someone else’s problems. Everyone else supported Raphael because…ah, who cares what games those guys play. Anyway the kid is already dead. Problem solved, leaving much bigger problem named Eve hanging, but Dean will figure something out.  

“Let’s get out of here, Benny. I’m sick of this place.”

They nod goodbyes to the ghoul who’s cleaning the floor and go outside. They stop by Dean’s car behind the building.

“Have plans for the rest of the night, Dean?”

“Ah, all the usual,” looking for Abaddon like he does every night he has some free time. “You?”

“Need to stop by the 9th Circle, want to ask few questions.” Huh, must be something important if Benny goes to anarchs.

“Something I need to know?” he’s the sheriff after all.

“Not sure yet. Might be nothing. Might be something really bad,” usually Benny doesn’t worry much about might-be-nothings.

“O-kay then. You’ll tell me if it isn’t nothing.”

“Sure, brother,” promises Benny.

“Need a ride?”

“I’ve got my own car,” and before Dean can comment Benny says, “I know it’s a piece of trash, but I’m not complaining.”

“Damn, I miss Dad’s car. She was a beauty.” Oh, Baby, where are you now? What state are you passing through?

“Yeah, you’ve told me your epic love story ‘bout hundred times.” Benny just has to be mean about it, doesn’t he?

“Still better love story than Twilight.”

Benny makes a face. To be honest Dean would like to shine like a goddamn fairy in the sun than burst into flames. On the other hand, as long as humanity imagines vampires like _that_ kindred are safe and sound.

As he drives away he starts thinking again. So, let’s say he finds the redhead bitch, what then? He kills her. Easier said than done. Not only she’s much older and much stronger than he is, Abaddon is his fucking sire. He’s not sure he physically will be able to harm her. No, of course not every sire and childe are family, Dean knows some who hate each other, but he knows none who would try to kill each other. A blood bond is a serious thing. But it is what surely makes the search easier. It’s just sometimes Dean catches himself on one annoying thought… what if he looks for his sire not to kill her but reunite with her.

She still is in this city, he just knows it (his blood knows it), and he swore to take revenge on her for everything she’s done to him and his family. And it doesn’t matter that she and her other childer are technically his family now. Family doesn’t end with blood and blood doesn’t make a family. In the end he’ll make a right choice. He really hopes he will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean holds onto his humanity... let's where it'll lead him.


End file.
